


I Still Feel You

by tangofox



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Depression, Drugs, M/M, Mentall Illness, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Self Harm, eventual happy ending (?)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan Prouvaire is a mess. Grantaire too, but perhaps, not so much. Together they're sometimes worse, but rare, beautiful times, they're better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Hate Your Guts

The only sound in the alleyway audible was the clicking of heels, unsure on the pavement, the wearer obviously stumbling. They couldn't stand up straight, and they werent sure if it was all the narcotics they had taken, or that painfully familiar ache of heartbreak, threatening to make their knees buckle. It was an all too familiar scene, stumbling along the back streets, legs unsteady, cigarette in hand, tear-stained cheeks. The hangover in the morning would be nightmarish. And the nightmares would be seemingly neverending. It was self-medicating, drugs and casual sex that they took too far. They spiralled into obsession far too quickly, fell in love in a heartbeat. They were ruined. But yet they never stopped. One night of love kept the demons away, if only for a moment.

They stumble into the apartment without grace, fumbling to find the lightswitch, tossing their bag onto the couch. A cigarette is dropped onto the carpeted floor and stomped out before it can set alight, under a scuffed, red heel. They make their way to the bathroom, staring at the toilet, It felt like a knife was twisting into their gut. A moment later they were slumped on their knees, retching and emptying the contents of their stomach. Just alcohol and pills. The vomiting however, seems to give them a new lease of life. They hop up, swigging mouthwash and turning on the bath taps. They dance about, tripping over their own feet, imaginary music playing in their head as they drop a bath bomb in the water, grinning as it fizzles. They slip off their heels and shimmy out of the ripped tights, no underwear to take off. They pull the dress over their head next, ignoring the stains. They would wash away. They climb into the scalding, purple water, glitter swirling about their bloodied knees, heavy earrings jangling as they tilt their head back.

Sometimes they didn't feel like a mess. Sometimes they woke and felt like a warrior. Nobody else in the world was looking out for them. Their army was one, singular person, ready to fight. Ready to do anything to survive. Some days they had to battle themselves. That alter-ego inside them that twisted and spasmed inside them. That person they wanted to kill. They wanted the bad side to leave, the good to stay. The highs to never leave. The low's to never appear. Some days it wasn't really either. It was normality that they didn't quite understand. It felt strange, that what everyone else seemingly perceived as normal, as 'right', felt so wrong to them. It was a problem, it was like wanting to feel fixed, but not wanting to lose that part of yourself. That broken little thing that made you, you. 

They had work in morning. They wouldn't make it. They never did. Since they left home at fifteen, they had lived off Daddy's money. It was more like, keep quiet and don't embarrass the family money. They kept out of the limelight, out of that circle. Nobody ever recognised them, not even from the last name. And drug dealers and scumbags weren't really interested in children of politicians. They felt like a ghost sometimes. They didn't feel real.

They pick up their flatmates razor, flicking it between their hands. They would like to say it was a mistake when they nicked their palm on it, when blood dripped into the bathtub. It didn't bring relief. It didn't even hurt. They felt...so disconnected. But nothing helped that feeling, at least not permanently. Not the stints in hospitals, not the expensive therapy and the prescription drugs. Ecstasy worked. Heroin worked. And some nights it didn't do a thing. 

Their boyfriend - not boyfriend, he wasn't a boyfriend. He had made it clear right from the beginning that they were just fucking. And in turn they had promised not to fall in love. They weren't just fucking. They were pawing at each other in the club, doing lines of coke off of each others chests. They were throwing glasses at each other, they were biting and snarling. They weren't in love. That wasn't true. They were madly in love from the get go. From the day the man put a flower in his hair. His ruby lips tasted of blood, no matter what. It was more intoxicating than the drugs. 

They had fantasies. A dog, a husband, a nice fancy cottage in the middle of the woods. It wouldn't suit them, but they still thought about it. They could never make it like that. They were a trainwreck. They would be dead by twenty-seven. If they weren't careful, they would be dead by Sunday. 

There was a noise, a stirring in another room, but they ignored it in favour of dunking their head under the water, letting the shimmery water flow up their nose and into their brain. They cleansed their soul with it. Their insides always felt so dirty, and under the water, their lungs filling up, it felt so sweet. It felt like heaven. Like relief. When they emerge for air they're gasping, and grinning at the same time. They have split lip and now they're pretty sure there's a piece of glitter stuck to it. Hygienic. They think about their body absorbing the glitter, about the piece dissolving into their bloodstream. Insignificant. Gone, and forgotten so easily.

They can't get up. Not physically, it's easy to rise in the bathtub, to wander out into the living room. Drip, drip, drip. They just want a beast to rise up from the ground, to devour them whole. They feel so broken all the time. Falling is easy, falling to the living room floor, wet and naked is wonderfully easy. It's easy to lean back when they feel arms wrap around them from behind. Big, strong, arms. Those arms have always been there, and too often they push them away. But he, he's the only constant that keeps them grounded.

"You will catch your death Jehan Prouvaire," He whispers against their ear, pressing a kiss to their jaw. Jehan thought it a funny little saying. Could you catch death? Most people spent their entire lives running away from death. Making sure death doesn't catch them. So shouldn't the saying be different? Or does it mean, their death will catch up with him. Their death. It makes him think of billions of reapers, following humans around, just waiting for a slip up so they could eat their souls. Funny little creatures.

"You wont let it catch me right? I can feel its breath on my neck," they murmur in response, tilting their head further back, letting their limbs relax. They both sit their like that for what seems to them like an eternity. It takes them a moment to realise their fragile body is being lifted, being carried to bed with skin still damp. 

"I wish you loved me," They murmurs, their head falling back against the pillows of their own bed, for the first time in a week.

"I wish you realised I love you."

They couldn't help but smile to that. It wasn't true, of course. They could hear a camera going off, register a flash. It was a common occurence. They would become a sketch in the morning. Sketches were good. Ink stained drawings couldn't rot like their insides were. Drawings didn't wilt and burn and stink. They couldn't feel all these bad things if they were just ink and pencil on a page. 

In a different world, they would have been lovers. They should be in this one, they know. But they cannot bear the idea that sex, that romantic love, might damage the fragile friendship. Because he was all they truly had. And sometimes they didn't have him at all. They keep a picture on them at all times, a stupid polaroid, taken in a field when they were eighteen. They had gotten drunk off wine together, and they had given him a blowjob. Neither of them had really talked about how much they enjoyed that afternoon. How it was the happiest they had felt in months at the time. It was impossible to put into words how important he was. How losing him would be worse than losing all the lovers put together. 

"Eat my heart. Then I'll believe you," They whisper, before falling asleep to the feeling of their lovers lips upon their cheek, the feeling of Grantaire, pure-hearted and good, curling up to watch them sleep like their protector.


	2. Leave Me In The Rain

He wakes up to the soft sound of snoring, a body holding loosely onto his. They wont wake for a few hours yet, so all he can do is wait, and hope sleep does some of the healing for him. He wants a drink. He can feel his hands shaking, his body angry at him for not giving it what it needs. But he promised himself he would cut down. That maybe...even one day, he might stop. He knew what a wreck he was. What a disgusting alcoholic he was. He didn't want to be that way. Didn't want to have to turn to alcohol to numb the pain he experiences. But sometimes, nothing else worked.

He crawls out of bed, all stiff limbs and sore eyes. He grabs a hair tie off the side, scraping his natural hair back as best he can, letting the bun rest on the top of his head. He doesn't bother styling it properly, leaving little strands of hair sticking out all over the place. He fumbles for his glasses, putting them on while he wanders to the bathroom. There's a glance back to the person in the bed, a worrying thought, one that hasn't gone away since he was a teenager. This self destructive thing was a pattern for both of them. But one day, one of them wouldn't come out of it alive. It made him sick to think he might lose his best friend. He had to do everything to protect them. 

It's a long and intense staring match with the mouthwash, the bottle winning as he looks away, shuts the cupboard and reaches for the toothpaste instead. He's quiet in everything he does, determined to not wake the sleeping beauty, to let them have the rest they deserve. Jehan always felt better after a good nights rest. He might just let them sleep the day away. At least, if they were passed out in his bed, he knew where they were. No worries about what drugs they're taking, what stranger is touching them. Jealousy...is a strange thing. It's not as if they're ever going to be together. Jehan likes handsome men, likes pretty girls, likes beautiful people. He doesn't stand a chance. He thinks about Montparnasse, Jehans on again, off again boyfriend. His slender figure, his pale, soft skin. His red lips and sneering smile. He was beautiful. Jehan looked perfect on his arm. On his arm? He would look out of place. Jehan belonged amongst beauty. He was not that. He never had been, and he never will be. He will always be a little too odd, a little too chubby, a little too much of everything.

He spits out the toothpaste without ceremony, splashing cold water on his face, resisting the urge to let his knees buckle. He needs a drink. Vodka, wine, just something to perk him up. But he promised himself, nothing until Friday. Friday felt so far away. He had a lecture at three, so plenty of time to busy himself, to find a way to take his mind of the booze, and all the other worries. He busies himself with a cup of instant coffee and a slice of toast, making sure he just has one. If he's quitting the drink, he should at least try and eat better. He might even try get back into boxing again. Or go running. He wants to feel like a person, instead of a mess.

As he slumps down in the armchair he remembers the picture he took last night. It was a habit that started a few months ago, when Jehan pointed out they could hardly remember the night before, what they did and what they looked like. So he had started taking pictures, sketching Jehan and showing them in the morning. Today's picture was a little blurry, a little harsh. The flash had made their skin even whiter, had bleached the image a little too much. He could work with it. He finds his sketchbook on the floor along with a pencil, balancing them on the arm of the chair, biting a big chunk out of the toast. He always liked sketching nudes, found them easier to work with. In the photo, Jehan was sprawled out on the bed, legs bent slightly, one arm thrown up over their eyes. It was like they were actually posing, instead of caught in a candid moment. He smiles at the thought, appreciating how photogenic they are. 

He sits there for near two hours, sketching Jehan, adding subtle shading and then going over it with ink, his fingers substantially stained by the time Jehan starts to stir in the bed. "Good morning sleepyhead," Grantaire murmurs with a grin, taking a chug of his now-cold coffee. They wriggle in their bed, pressing a hand against their forehead, before rolling onto their stomach and offering a grunt in response. 

It would be easy, he thinks, to cross the room, get on the bed, and kiss Jehan until they're both desperate for air. To take them in his arms and promise that everythings going to be okay, as long as they have each other. But thats a false promise. Because Grantaire knows he will break them. He breaks everything he touches, he's disgustingly destructive. He doesn't love Jehan. But he does, oh he does love him, and he always will. It's a conflicting feeling that he can never wrap his head around. All he knows is he's not good for them. He will drag them down to the depths of Hell, and they wont know how to get out again. The Persephone to his Hades. Only, there's nobody here to save Persephone from her fate. 

Grantaire does rise, pulling the curtain closed a little more to save their eyes. "Don't know if you remembered, but you took a bath at god-knows-what o'clock. You might still need a shower though. And I have to go to class soon. I have work after too."

His rambling is met with another grunt, which is actually a good thing. When they're low, really low, they wont make a sound. They wont move. It's terrifying. Grantaire prefers the benders. Usually he goes along with them, gets wasted, takes the drugs, makes a mess of himself. 

"Will you wash my hair for me?"

That sets warning bells off in his head. Things like that, they were for bad days. But when Grantaire turns around, Jehan is sat up in the bed, rubbing their arms and smiling softly. Like a fucking dove. Like a dream. He wants to hate them. He wants them to hate him. But he just chuckles, and nods as he always does.

"Come on then stinky. I don't even want to know whats in your hair. And the blue is faded, you need to do it again," Grantaire says, letting Jehan grab his arm for leverage as they walk to the bathroom together. He fills the bath up with warm water, adding a little of the mango bath melt he got Jehan a while back, watching as they daintly step into the bath. Some days Grantaire wished he looked as beautiful as them, but he knows how much they struggled with body issues too. He's gentle as he gets out the old measuring jug, filling it up with water and gently pouring it over their head, careful not to get anything in their eyes. He sits on the edge of the bathtub as he massages shampoo in their hair, a soothing moment for the both of them, Grantaire smiling at the look on Jehans face. It didn't seem like it was going to be a good day for either of them. 

In that moment, that rare moment, he felt hopeful.


End file.
